


Tourniquet (part 1/2)

by toluenesister



Series: Dissolve and absolve [4]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Bondage, Captivity, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:40:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1418664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toluenesister/pseuds/toluenesister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows "Can't see the forest". I initially intended for it to be a single piece, but it started to grow out of control, so I'm uploading what I have so far now as I have no idea how long it'll take me to finish the whole thing, and I was anxious to share <i>something</i> as soon as possible.</p>
<p>I live and breathe for comments!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tourniquet (part 1/2)

Bruce has been pacing along the wharf for the better part of the evening. He owns it, it’s the shipping yard that houses the Batman’s base, so there's no need to hurry. He can take as much time as he needs, although what he has come here to do only takes a split second. The inside pocket of his jacket weighs him down.

It would have been a perfect night for a patrol. The air is clear and even the stars are visible from where he's standing, admirably resistant to light pollution in this small waterfront area.

He used to enjoy nights like this so much. This is when he would truly feel alive, taking a deep breath of Gotham at its freshest before he’d plunge down from the tallest skyscraper and glide into the thickest filth to splice it with a bit of purity from high above. Tonight he will forget all about it though. He has come here to kill himself.

But there is still a little time left. There’s a choice to be made—which image should he drum up to keep him company on his way out? His parents smiling at him for the last time? Alfred telling him he would never give up on him? Rachel’s eyes as she said his father would have been proud of him? Which one would sting the deepest? Which one would go well with a bullet?

Bruce chose a gun to do it in a final insult aimed at himself. It’s only logical—choosing a device to deal out punishment for betrayal should be a betrayal in itself. Now, he reminisces how he tossed the gun he had picked out to kill Joe Chill into the water. He never wanted to hold one in his hand ever again. It was a transition from a bitter chrysalis into the powerful being he fancied himself to be for so long.

But madness is like gravity. All it takes is a little  _push_. Or, in this instance, a little pull. 

He remembers the Joker’s words as he left him the last time. They had remained motionless, tangled in each other for way too long. Bruce had hoped they could fall asleep together like that, but at some point it just ended. Joker got dressed, gave Bruce a pat on the back and seemed to fumble for an appropriate thing to say. He looked broken, to put it lightly.  _Broken_  is not something that should read on his face, he’s the one who does all the breaking. And yet there he was. In the end, he just told Bruce to give him a call whenever he wants to see him. He has his number.

Now, Bruce is looking at the cell phone he got from him at the beginning of it all. He hasn’t received any text messages since the last time. He tosses it into the water and listens to the splash. He thinks there should be more fanfare to it, but there are only mosquitoes wailing. It would have been something to be bitten by one before or as it happens. He reaches inside his jacket and takes out the gun.

This is not what he wants to do. Not all of him. There is something inside, sore and pulsating, and all it wants to do is go somewhere with a nice, soft bed. It wants to lie in it and sleep. Wake up, eat breakfast, go about his day. And it wants the Joker to be there, telling him it’s okay to have this. Telling him it’s all alright, that he did nothing wrong, cuddling him when it gets tough, leaving series of those silly, suckling kisses on top of his head. Which is precisely the reason he stands here now with a gun in his hand.

He hasn’t been this scared since the night he saw what it could do with his own eyes, but no matter how many times he thinks it over, he keeps arriving at the same place. There is nothing else. He’s not that kind of person, he doesn’t forget, he doesn’t adapt, he just wants everything to be clean, or passable as such at least so he can convincingly lie to himself. And yet at some point he ended up drenched in happiness soiled beyond what all the shadows of people who cared for him would ever accept.

The water is so near, it would take only one step to be swallowed whole. Cold sweat is trickling down his back, and he’s so terrified his legs fail him and he drops on his fours, retching. There’s nothing inside, he hasn’t eaten anything in so long. He heaves a few ragged breaths, and there’s a fleeting realization that he senses a trace of hunger despite the nausea. He’s still alive. His body is still sending him signals it wants to keep itself alive. Tears are flowing down his face as he stands up with effort, and in this instance he feels so sorry for himself. He allows it, as there isn’t much left for him anyway. In this last moment, he might as well acknowledge deep down he’s never been much more than a wronged child, seething in anger and self-pity, and that he wishes those he loved, those who died, whose disappointed echoes guide his hand as he inserts the barrel in his mouth—he wishes they had never existed.

He steps away from the water making sure he won’t fall in it. He wants his body found quickly so no one spends money and resources looking for him. The mosquitoes are swarming him, and he feels one land on his neck as he tightens his finger over the trigger. He does feel a little sting before all goes black.

***

Everything seems familiar. The heaviness in his muscles, the eyelids won’t crack open, the inability to move. He knows he hasn’t died; somehow something managed to get in between him and his bullet. With a few careful movements to the sides, he knows now he’s sitting, his arms and legs cuffed, and there’s a chain threaded through the cuffs and around the chair legs. The chair itself is bolted to the floor. He takes in a deep breath, and there it is. The comforting greasepaint.

Opening his eyes proves to be a challenge, but at least now he’s got an incentive. He would very much like to see what’s in store for him. The slit of light grows until it fills his field of vision. The Joker stands before him, they’re in some apartment, the blinds are drawn, but it feels like it’s still night outside. Bruce turns his head left to right, taking note of all the furnishings and appliances within his sight. It seems simple enough—there’s a bed, the room’s connected with a kitchen, the half-open door to the left looks like it leads to a bathroom. There’s a lot of boxes. Joker is definitely tying the room together. There’s no doubt he’s the tenant of this place—everything here seems to bear his mark, including Bruce.

Joker leans over him and lifts his chin with one hand. He’s not wearing any gloves or other excessive garments, the only things he has on is a patterned shirt, one of its tails hanging out of a pair of dark striped pants. His makeup is even messier than usual, as if there was no conviction behind it. He looks like a bad photocopy of himself, down to his eyes glistening with ersatz madness. The only genuine thing is concern.

“Where are we?” Bruce asks to break the silence. He doesn’t care about the man’s answer, his own satisfies him just fine. Here, that’s where he is. Joker’s fingers claw gently at his cheek.

“Somewhere you can’t make a fool out of yourself,” he says, and even his voice sounds threadbare.

“Did you tranq me again? How did you even find me?”

“ _How_ _did I_ _even find you?_ ” Joker mocks and kneels in front of Bruce, resting his forearms on tops of his thighs. He’s holding a tranquilizer gun in his right hand. “That phone you threw in the river, I was tracking it so I could keep an eye on you. It’s called thinking on your toes.”  

“Is that so?” Bruce smiles. “You want to keep me here so I don’t kill myself?”

“Yeah, that’s my grand scheme.” Joker raises his eyebrows. This short exchange has been enough for his eyes to regain a bit of life.

“For how long?” Bruce is still fighting the haze, but the Joker’s corrosive eyes keep him focused. He sees each of his words earns itself a reaction, which is oddly satisfying. He used to think the madman was impervious to everything. It was a lifetime ago.

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to hear an ‘as long as it takes’, eh?” Joker giggles and pats his knee. “I think we both know _it_ could  _take_ squat. You stay here until one of us dies, Bruce.”

“If you just waited a couple of seconds, I’d have saved you the trouble.”

“I was thinking more like, of natural causes. Silly.”

The image presents itself in its full glory to Bruce’s fogged mind. Him, aging, deteriorating, cuffed, bound, sedated for the remainder of his days. Being cared for in every way possible. No say on the matter. There’s a part of him that feels demented exhilaration, offsetting the more prominent pall of dread and shame. He has failed again, and now the Joker is going to roll around in his defeat to his heart’s content. Although, the way he stares reveals levels of despair going down beyond what Bruce could ever quantify.

This isn’t a state where he can make decisions, Bruce tells himself. Trying to push his thumbs out of their sockets to get free would result in another dartful of tranquilizer, since the Joker’s trigger finger seems really anxious to keep him safe.

“So tell me your plan for me.” He smiles. “You  _have_  thought it through, right?”

“ _Plan_?” Joker scoffs. “I’m going to feed you, clean you and tuck you in bed, wash, rinse, repeat, that’s the plan. Speaking of which, when was the last time you ate something?”

Bruce feels as though an army of ants has just marched up and down his body. He’s fairly sure he’s as lucid as he’s gonna get now. He can’t give an answer though. He just doesn’t remember.

“Your fingernails are bluish, you’re cold and pale and your breath’s been slow and shallow even before I shot you, so I’m wagering, uh, five days?”

“I think it might be six now,” Bruce says with a dim smirk. That’s the time they last saw each other.

“Did you drink anything?"

“I... did?” Bruce knits his eyebrows. There are images of water falling all around him, cold showers, cold tap water barging into his eyes. He did welcome it on reflex. “I did. I drank water.”

“Regularly?”

“I think.”

“You look very dehydrated.” Joker rolls up Bruce’s sleeve and pinches his skin lightly. “You  _feel_  very dehydrated. Just  _harrowing_ , sweetheart. Better do something about it before you blow the whole Gotham’s most eligible bachelor thing.” He rises to his feet and swivels towards the kitchen.

“Thought I’d be pretty enough for you now.” Bruce says, chuckling. It stops the Joker in his tracks, and he looks at the sitting man, the corners of his mouth twitching, struggling to break into a smile. His eyes are wide open and bloodshot, glistening with intruding moisture when he leans down a little to lock their gazes.

“Did you think I  _wanted_  you to fall this deep?” he asks.

“Well, what  _did_  you want?” Bruce’s stare grinds into him like a dull razor, slowly and painfully sinking in for the vital parts. “You did take an awful long to shoot me up. What were you waiting for?”

The madman rights himself and looks at a distant spot for a leaden moment before he shrugs and trains his eyes back on Bruce’s. 

“Kinda hoped I could keep myself from doing it, y’know. If I just let you go, it would’ve been so much easier. But then I saw you were really going for it. It wasn’t just some ritual to calm yourself, to remind that you always have this way out. Some people stick guns in their mouths like it’s pills. But you really hate guns, don’t you.” He looks at the tranquilizer gun in his hand. It used to be Batman’s own gadget. “This one likes you, though. Likes both of us, I guess. Helped us out of awkward situations more than once.”

“If I did blow my face off with you just standing there, it would’ve been pretty awkward, wouldn’t it.”

“Yeah. So let’s just say I waited until the last possible moment to let you save... face. You’re welcome.”

He turns and walks to the kitchen. Bruce watches him stick the gun beneath his waistband, open a bottle of mineral water and pour it in a glass, filling it halfway up. He then puts a purple bendy straw in it and brings it back to him, extending his arm in an offering gesture.

“Here you go. Just go very slowly.” The straw tip prods gently at Bruce’s mouth, but he doesn’t pay any mind to it, too focused on the Joker’s features. The threat of tears is gone, but he still looks like he could burst at any moment.

Bruce is well aware of how weak he is. All those days of surviving on just adrenaline have finally caught up with him, and even taking a deeper breath is a challenge. He’s going to need strength in order to break out of here and carry it out to the end. He is not going to let the Joker become his life support. Though he knows he would very much like to. His first urge is to be obedient, please this maniac, make him smile. Precisely the reason he stuck a gun in his mouth in the first place. Luckily, what he wants and what he’s supposed to do coalesce at this point—in order to kill himself, he needs strength, and in order to gain strength, he needs to please the Joker. So he takes the straw in his mouth and sucks up some water.

He can pinpoint the moment the man’s face relaxes, and the familiar tenderness reappears in his eyes when he swallows it. It’s cold as it travels down his esophagus and sinks into his stomach, and it feels almost ritualistic, voluntarily bringing a sustaining substance into his body for the first time in nearly a week. Joker’s legs shake beneath him and he seats himself in Bruce’s lap, wrapping an arm around his neck. He lays his head on his shoulder, and the hand holding the glass stays within Bruce’s reach.

“You asked me what it was... that I wanted,” he half-whispers and pulls himself closer. The cold in Bruce’s stomach gives way to tingling warmth. Every single cell of his body welcomes the madman’s weight in earnest. “Well, at first I wasn’t really sure, but now it would be something like this,” he finishes. Bruce smirks and takes another sip of water.

“ _K_ eeping me tied to a chair and playing nurse?”

Joker shudders, possibly in silent laughter. “No, just, uh,  _this._ ” His embrace tightens. 

Bruce feels like he’s melting. The embers of happiness he felt the last time they were together lick away at his insides until he gives in and rests his head against the Joker’s.

“You know what, that thing you said…” he begins and chuckles. “About letting me save face. It was a good one.”

Joker giggles against his neck, and Bruce is still smiling. He sucks up the remaining water. It feels nice to take it into his body, and also justified in some strange way. Receiving it from the Joker’s hand somehow has made it right. This infection has spread way beyond his understanding. He can decipher to a point what makes him yield to this man to such extent, but it’s just the tip of the iceberg. Trying to stay faithful to the conviction that his condition is punishable only by death might prove difficult. Joker places the empty glass on the floor and brings both of his arms around Bruce’s shoulders. He holds him as if trying to squeeze every single ounce of warmth he’s got into him, and in this instance Bruce knows clinging to his conviction borders impossible. He is this close to saying  _uncuff me, won’t fight when you cuff me back, just for a minute please I want to hold you–_

Steely stinging in his throat chokes him up. He’s too weak to feel disgust, to resist, to force himself into a mold of righteousness. The fleeting moments from right before the drug took its effect flash through his head. He remembers the self-pity he spent his whole life trying to run away from. The ghost of hunger he felt in the midst of nausea. Everything that’s the most childish, the most base and repulsive about him, he wants to dump it all at the Joker’s feet, have him rummage through it and say it’s all okay.

And  _this_  is punishable by death, says the castigating voice of his father.

As it echoes through his skull, the Joker lifts his head and looks at him, making it die away instantly. Bruce doesn’t think when he leans in and kisses him. It’s not much of a kiss; he can hardly control any of his muscles, but he needs to feel the man’s lips against his own, suck on them gently until this barely mustered ounce of strength leaves him and he just rests, their mouths still touching. Joker grabs his face and pulls away a few inches.

“You probably shouldn’t in this state, this stuff on my face is toxic, I think,” he says with a sweet smile and wipes the traces of greasepaint off Bruce’s lips with his thumb. “Wait until your body’s less, uh, susceptible?”

“Or you could take it off?”

“Oh, I don’t think you wanna see my  _actual_  dark circles. They’re getting out of hand lately.”

Bruce returns the smile. He knows he’s being sucked into this familiar void once again. As long as the Joker keeps him on an IV of his affection it’s all good, but he knows once it’s yanked, whatever remains is-

_PUNISHABLE_

It reverberates in his ears again. He jerks, clenches his eyes and hangs his head, shaking it. Joker’s grip over his cheeks grows firmer and forces him to look up again.

“What is it?” he asks. Bruce wants to tell him he’s having aural hallucinations, that he hears his own father telling him he needs to die to atone for being happy under the madman’s touch. That he wants to listen to this voice since it’s the first time he’s heard it in decades. He needs to honor it, please it. But he can’t quite say it out loud.

“I’m having a hard time, in case you can’t tell,” he grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Joker tucks in his lower lip, nods and smiles, petting his cheek. 

Bruce looks to his right and sees a bed. There are leather straps fixed to the mattress, probably meant to keep him in place when it’s time to turn in. He remembers before he was brought here he wanted to go to a place with a bed, lie in it and sleep. He wanted the Joker to say it was alright. He looks back at him and realizes, when their gazes are locked, he feels safe.

“I… I’d like to go to sleep. I think I’m having hallucinations, since I haven't been sleeping all that well lately,” he says, trying to shape each of his words into a statement, not a plea. “Is that okay?” he adds in a small voice.

“Can you drink a bit more water for me first?”

Bruce nods. For some reason, he really wants to hear it. He keeps looking intently, waiting.

“Then it’s okay.” Joker smiles and kisses his forehead. He climbs off his lap and grabs the glass, then directs his steps to the kitchen to refill it. Bruce’s eyes follow him. His silhouette gives him a sense of calming familiarity. The hunched shoulders, disheveled hair, nervous, twitchy gestures as he twists the cap back on. He has come to associate those things with safety. He now identifies the Joker with shelter.

Bruce must never have been much of a man to begin with if it only took this little to bring him to this level. He feels warmth bloom in his stomach when the Joker offers him cold water to fill it with, as he climbs back into his lap, straddling him this time. He holds the glass up, letting him drink at his own pace. Bruce now understands the thought behind the straw. Joker doesn’t want to force him to do anything, but it looks like Bruce has forced his hand.

He sucks on the purple plastic, inviting the liquid into his mouth. He’s not taking his eyes off the man. There are numerous tell-tale signs on his face that even the makeup can’t conceal, and Bruce can tell he hasn’t slept well lately either. But come to think of it, the Joker would never strike him as the type who ever gets a good night sleep. Usually, there was some neurotic fire sizzling just beneath his skin that would afford him an air of inexhaustible energy. Now, there’s nothing.

Something learned inside Bruce makes him want to ask if he’s alright. This is what you ask someone who obviously isn’t. He doesn’t do it, though. He drinks his water quietly, and when he’s done, he smiles. On the inside, he’s laughing at himself—somehow, he has decided he draws the line at expressing verbal concern for the man in spite of having emotionally prostrated himself in front of him in every way imaginable. If he still has inhibitions, there might be hope for him yet.

Joker stretches his mouth in a grin, his scars crinkling, and it frays the mirage of hope at the edges. There might be none yet, after all. Bruce sighs when the man leaves his lap, suddenly feeling cold and deprived. He watches him place the empty glass atop one of the cardboard boxes and walk back to him to start maneuvering around the chains holding him down. Several clanks later, Bruce is being encouraged to stand up, although the moment he does, the Joker takes a few steps back and points the tranquilizer gun at him. Bruce looks at him incredulously.

“My hands and feet are cuffed, in case you haven’t noticed. And I can barely stand.”

“Then go lie down. I’m not taking chances with you, mister,” he hisses. His eyes are threatening, and there’s iron tingeing his voice, but it quickly gives way to something jarringly soft and accommodating. “Oh, do you need anything else before I tuck you in? Go to the bathroom maybe?”

Bruce stares at him and slowly shakes his head. He wants to test the cuffs, slowly pulling his arms in opposite directions, and only now does he realize his palms have been put in plaster in a way that allows for limited finger movement, but there’s no way he’ll be able to yank his thumbs out of their sockets. All this time he’s been too numb to acknowledge that. The chain connecting the cuffs is fairly long, though. With a bit of luck, he might be able to wipe himself, if the Joker lets him do that.

For now, he just takes a tentative step forwards. The chain binding his legs also makes walking feasible, but it does force him to drag his feet a little. He keeps going until he reaches the bed. The sheets look freshly washed, and it makes him wonder to what extent the Joker has thought it through. Has he been preparing this for a while now? He gave him mineral water, and somehow Bruce doesn’t think the Joker would care enough to drink anything else than tap himself. He probably got it specifically for him. It makes him feel warm and dizzy, but it’s alright, he can lie down now. The mattress is soft and seems to welcome him. It feels so wrong to have something that was supposed to be his dying wish come true.

Joker walks up to the bed and looms over him, still keeping the gun primed.

“Uh, maybe you’d like me to take off your clothes? Or are you comfortable like that?”

“I’m fine,” Bruce says, although he’s intrigued as to how the Joker would go about undressing him in this state. Is he just going to cut away his clothes every time, or has he conjured up some way to do it without destroying them? How is he going to dress him back up? The absurdity of it all starts to slowly hit him, but he’s come to appreciate it. It’s always all but absurdity.

“Alright,” Joker mouths under his breath and grabs one pair of the straps. He seems to waver for a second, but finally he sticks the gun back beneath his waistband and focuses on fastening them around Bruce’s right wrist. Bruce watches the ministrations, and once the Joker’s done and walks around to the other side of the bed, he attempts to pull his hand a little and realizes the binds allow a few inches of leeway. Probably just enough to turn from one side to the other. Joker has really thought it through.

Bruce observes him take care of his other wrist, and then the legs. When he’s all tucked in, the Joker produces a key from his pocket and removes the cuffs. He carries them to the kitchen area and places them on the table. Bruce doesn’t take his eyes off him even for a second. There’s a burning question inside him that needs to be answered now—will he lie down with him, will he hold him, will he watch over him as he sleeps, will he make sure it’s  _all okay_. Joker seems to notice it in his eyes. He smiles and paces to the light switch, flicking it off.

Bruce waits for his eyes to adapt, but before it happens, the Joker’s weight is already registering at his right side, announcing itself with a welcome creak. He feels a warm hand gently feeling at him, tracing his face until it rests on top of his head, smoothing his hair.

“Do you sleep on your back, or…?” The soft voice and the pitch darkness roll over Bruce in thick waves of comfort. It takes him a few beats to answer.

“I like to sleep on my left side,” he whispers.

“Called it,” the Joker says with a discernible smile. “Go ahead, sweetheart.” He rubs his arm encouragingly.

Bruce attempts to shift and realizes he was right—he does have enough freedom to turn from one side to the other, but not enough for his hands to meet. Did the Joker test it on someone before he installed it? Highly probable. He settles comfortably on his left side, and once he does, he feels the Joker sit up beside him and make a move for something at their feet. Then, he feels a blanket thrown over him, and a warm body pressing to his back, a warm arm wrapping around his chest protectively, warm breath ghosting against the back of his neck. He melts in happiness he doesn’t quite believe has befallen him.

At first it dulls him, gives him a promise of imminent rest, but it only lasts for a w few minutes. Lulled by the Joker’s rhythmical breath and a slow, almost weightless caress of his hand, he verges sleep, and once he arrives at the precipice, he hears the voice of his father repeating he needs to atone. Accept the punishment.

Because the sin he has committed is punishable.

only by death

The will Thomas Wayne left His son is not the will Thomas Wayne left this piece of garbage cuddled by this subhuman refuse.

and the will Thomas Wayne left His son is clear and it tells His son to honor His memory and be the everlasting pillar of This City

This city has been Good To Our Family.

the son of Thomas Wayne keeps His Name alive

It’s the only thing that’s left of him.

the son of Thomas Wayne does not destroy it

“Bruce… Brucey, sh, sh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay, hush, hush, sh, shhh,” the saccharine voice overpowers the booming bellowing, and Bruce realizes he’s shaking and crying. He really did hear it. His mind is falling apart. “What’s wrong?” Joker asks.

It takes Bruce a good minute to compose himself enough to put two words together.

“My father,” he says. Another minute passes. Joker doesn’t rush him, holding him as close as he can, his cheek pressed to his neck. “I keep hearing his voice.”

“I take it you don’t like what he says.” That’s it, no prying. Bruce is glad. He doesn’t want to repeat what he heard.

“It drives me to a point where I don’t even get to decide if I like it or not,” he whispers.

“Well, if it stands between you and your beauty sleep, it can’t be any good.”

“It’s the truth, though.”

The next few minutes drown in silence. Despite the Joker’s comforting warmth, Bruce remains stiff and keeps his eyes wide open. He doesn’t allow his breath to slow down, his muscles to relax. Somehow, he knows the second he lets his guard down and invites the languid bliss back in, the voice will return.

Joker counts those never ending minutes away. He keeps hoping Bruce would just forget and give in to sleep. He did say he wanted to sleep. But evidently, the man’s fear trumps everything he can think to offer him. He squeezes him, knowing his own fear is coiling just around the bend, ready to jump him any second, send him flying into a catatonic pit. At this rate, they might never get up from this bed. They might just burrow into their own respective little terrors and remain petrified until they rot. There’s a thought.

He squishes his face against the nape of Bruce’s neck and takes a deep breath. He has come to adore this scent more than anything. A little spiked oxygen for the brain. The feel of another body close to him and the slumber-related distress make him recall a little something he quickly erases, but the residual warmth keeps grating at his memory until an automatism breaks out.

“Hush-a-by, don’t you cry, go to sleep, little baby,” he starts to sing quietly.

At first, Bruce forgets to even breathe. His head goes blank, and it feels good. Everything he’s been trying to ward off loses its edge, slips away softly.

“Go to sleep, little baby, and when you wake, you shall have all the pretty little ponies,” the Joker keeps singing. He hugs him tighter and rocks back and forth ever so gently. Bruce lets out a small laugh.

“What?” the madman asks. He notices he’s laughing himself. “I know I’m no Celine Dion, but this can’t be worse than anything your father has to say, at  _this hour_  at that.”

Bruce finally relaxes against him, still chuckling.

“Yeah, definitely not worse,” he says. Joker gives him a kiss on the cheek and Bruce feels him smiling. They keep sharing these moments where they both smile, they both laugh. Bruce knows this little thought is this close from leaping into another lapse. “Keep singing,” he whispers.

“Paint and bay, sorrel and gray, all the pretty little ponies,” the Joker croons. He tries to wrap himself around Bruce in any way he can, hoping it’s still comfortable for the man, but the way he softens and gives--it tells him everything he does is just right. “So hush-a-by, don’t you cry, go to sleep, little baby. 

Bruce knows the Joker could shut up just about anyone, but he never suspected it would extend to his father. He drowns in his body heat, and breathing has never been easier. Slowly, rhythmically, in tiny increments, with every inflection of the man’s voice, the darkness crawls into his head and replaces the red hash.

*** 

Next time his eyes open, it’s already morning. At least he assumes it is. He might have just slept his way into the afternoon, if his increased clarity is any indication of a good rest. He turns on his back and looks up. Joker is stretched next to him, his arm swung around his waist, his eyes open, bloodshot as ever. He does not look rested at all. When he realizes Bruce is awake, he beams up and strokes his forehead.

“Survived your first night beautifully, champ,” he says.

“Did you even sleep?” Bruce asks before he thinks to stop himself. The concern jumps out along with each word, and he is too slow to corral it back in. Joker purses his lips and squints.

“Now, if I went to sleep then who would keep an eye on you so you don’t bite off your tongue and swallow it?” He rolls his eyes to the side pensively. “Or am I giving you ideas?”

“So you didn’t sleep.” Bruce looks at his feet sticking up under the blanket. Joker sits up and puffs out a sigh, giving Bruce’s arm a few pats. He closes his hand around it and doesn’t say or do anything apart from staring at some distant spot.

“You haven’t slept in a while either,” Bruce continues. “Are you going to do it every night? Watch so I don’t swallow my tongue?” Joker keeps quiet, his gaze still fixed on something remote. Bruce can’t see his face. Finally, the madman chuckles and shrugs.

“You didn’t really think this through, did you.”

Joker tightens his grip over Bruce’s arm, but doesn’t respond.

“You keep this up, you’re going to collapse at some point. It’s been close to a week, right?” Bruce really wishes he could reach out in any way, but the straps are doing a great job at keeping him from getting sucked into this quicksand. But then again, he is living on borrowed time right now, so does it really matter if his concern transpires? He does feel it. He has spent the whole night sleeping in captivity, and the first thing he feels upon waking up is concern for the man who put his hands in plaster and fastened him to the mattress to make sure he does wake up. “Just… just gag me,” he says. “Even now… I don’t need to go to the bathroom or anything, still too dehydrated I guess,” he smiles. The man finally turns to face him, and what his eyes tell wrings his guts. “Just gag me and sleep.”

“I did think about gagging you,” the Joker says and pauses. “But, uh… let me just tell you, trying to sleep with something in your mouth isn’t fun. The drooling... y’know. And now…” he clasps his hands together briefly and rubs his face, further smearing the makeup. It’s barely there anymore. He pinches the base of his nose and falls quiet again. “Now, there’s no time to sleep. We need to reintroduce calories to your life soon.”

“I could spare a few more hours,” Bruce says softly. He’d love to speak quietly enough not to hear himself. But there’s no denying right now he values the Joker’s rest over what he’s supposed to be doing, that being figuring out how to break free and finish what he started. He plays dumb before himself. He’s not strong enough yet. He’s not rested enough yet. As if dying required one’s full wits.

“I don’t want you to,” the Joker half-whispers. “I already let you wait too long, and trust me, the longer you put off ingesting, the longer it’s gonna take to put you back on track.”

The talk of sleeping, the talk of eating—Bruce is sure now the Joker speaks from experience. The only glimpses of his life he’s had a chance of catching. It’s becoming less hard to accept there is a life that’s been had behind this opaque veil of madness.

“I should’ve gotten you an IV, but you know how it is,” the Joker says and rubs Bruce’s cheek briefly. “It’s not the first thing you think of, and I myself forgot how these things work.”

“Good.” Bruce smiles. “It’s good to forget.”

“Well, it’s because I forgot we ended up right here,” he chuckles bitterly. “If I hadn’t forgotten, I wouldn’t have, uh... wouldn't be my  _cheerful_ self. Which seems to offend you, somehow. So offended you wanna wash your mouth with bullets.”

Bruce starts to laugh. It’s not the usual stifled skip of breath, it’s regular laughter. And it chokes the Joker up. He grips his forearm unknowingly to the point of bruising, but Bruce doesn’t even flinch. He keeps grinning.

“Yeah…” he says, his eyes jumping across the room, connecting several dots before he trains them back on the Joker’s. “ _Offended_  is one way to put it.” He watches the madman’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, the corners of his mouth twitching. It’s hard to recall whether he’s had anyone witness him really laugh in the past several years.

“It’s really kinda sad, you know,” the Joker says. “How you only laugh because you already feel freed by death.” He slicks his hair back and gets off the bed, directing his steps towards the kitchen. He returns holding the cuffs and begins to snap them around Bruce’s ankles and wrists, urging him to lift himself a little so he can fix his hands behind his back. Every little thing about the way he moves, the way he looks, worn out and oddly fragile—it sinks into Bruce like dozens of icy needles.

“Now, are you sure you don’t wanna go to the bathroom?” the Joker asks. “Or, you know, anything?”

“No, I’m fine,” Bruce says. He smiles, and the Joker reflects it, although his smile looks just as heart-rending as the rest of him.

“Alright,” he sighs through his nose and unfastens the straps, and the exact moment he’s done, he pulls the tranquilizer gun from behind his waistband, taking a few steps back. He points it at Bruce, who's still lying motionless. “You can get up now. Walk to the chair.”

Bruce heaves himself up with a small grunt and gives the Joker a slant look.

“Really? This is how you’re gonna do it every single time?”

“Well, if you weren’t so  _easily offended_ _,_  I wouldn’t have to.”

Bruce cocks his eyebrow. “Sorry about my delicate sensibilities.”

There’s nothing acerbic behind their words. Bruce can detect fondness in the Joker’s voice, and he suspects his own also gives it away. He drags his legs off the bed and places his feet on the floor. There’s a suspicious lightness in his muscles, but it doesn’t seem right or healthy to him. More like a symptom of something deeply wrong. Still, he does feel rested. He’s able to stand up without getting dizzy, but there is a threatening change of pressure in his head. As he walks towards the chair, he tries to breathe evenly, deeply amazed with how little it took to bring his body to this state.

He sits down, and the Joker is next to him in a second, threading the chain through the cuffs and the chair’s structure. His skin crawls with something warm and pleasant when the gusts of air the Joker’s movements leave in their wake ghost against him. His body still yearns for proximity.

When the man is done, he stands before Bruce, his arms hanging heavily along his sides, shoulders slightly hunched. He looks just as disheveled as when Bruce first regained consciousness. He clasps his hands and seems to nod to himself. Then, he paces to the kitchen. Bruce watches him, and the sight and the sounds, refrigerator opening and closing, the clank of glasses—it all feels oddly domestic. He’s not sure he actually has a point of reference, though. He can’t recall the last time he felt truly domestic.

Joker returns to him shortly, holding a tall glass of some kind of juice with a straw in it in one hand, and an energy drink can in the other. He straddles his lap and holds the glass up.

“Organic apple juice for you,” he says and takes a sip from the can. “Gut tanning taurine for me. Drink up.”

Again, imbibing whatever the Joker offers him feels obvious and natural. Bruce feels stinging in the far sides of his mouth as he sucks the liquid up, meaning his salivary glands have just had a rude awakening. Still, it’s nice to experience taste for the first time in so long. And the weight of the man in his lap is also far from unpleasant, although the concern that’s been accompanying him ever since he greeted the day doesn’t seem to go anywhere.

“Shouldn’t you be setting an example?” Bruce asks between sips. “How do you expect me to get on the healthy lifestyle side of things if you pick gut tanning over sleep yourself?”

“Bruce, sweetheart. Even me becoming Deepak Chopra before your very eyes wouldn’t motivate you enough to try and get a grip of yourself,” the Joker scoffs and takes another gulp of his drink. Bruce chuckles.

“Take it you don’t see this ever going anywhere.”

“Like there’s anywhere for  _this_  to go,” Joker scoffs and shakes his head. “Fair warning, if you're planning to ever try and lull me into a false sense of security, just save yourself the trouble. You’re not going anywhere either.” There it is again, the threat of bursting appearing shortly in his eyes before he pushes it back down.

“Now, I know…” the Joker begins after a while and tightens his grip over the can, making a slight indentation in it. “I know one day you will figure out  _some_ way to outsmart me. You’re not your run-of-the-mill prisoner, ya know. But I am not gonna make it easier for you.”

Bruce finishes his juice in silence, and he can already feel a slight difference in the way his blood rushes through his body.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks. A simple enough question, but he knows the answer to it is all but that. Joker raises his eyebrows.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

The madman leans back a little and cocks his head, mustering something up. Finally, he sighs.

“I can see the way your pupils dilate when you look at me,” he says, his voice oddly warm. “I see the way you react to me. I see that this, this here—it makes you  _happy_. I want you to be alive and happy. It’s that simple. Though coming from a guy like me I bet it’s a lot to take in.” He grins briefly. “Alive and happy… to you it’s like a fatal offence against everything you stand for. I just don’t get it, like… is it really that bad?”

He hangs his head. Bruce doesn’t have an answer for that. He stares at the way the Joker grips his can and the now empty glass, and once again he wishes his arms were free.

“One thing for sure,” Bruce smiles before he can stop himself. “You’re no run-of-the-mill captor. Might be a while before I figure out a way out of here. So fair warning,  if you’re gonna just keep me chained to things like this… I’m gonna grow fat before you know it.”

“Oh, you can grow fat, bald, toothless, I don’t care.” Joker laughs, and finally it looks genuine. It sends a pang of warm aching through Bruce’s stomach. “But if you’re gonna get all self-conscious about it, maybe I can get you a giant hamster wheel.”

“You would do that, wouldn’t you.” Bruce bites on the inside of his cheek to ward something off. He’s cheered him up, and it feels too good.

“Guess it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I've ever done.”

“And what would  _that_  be?”

Joker narrows his eyes and tucks his lips in. “Lullabying the Batman, probably.”

Bruce hangs his head, laughing. Again, really laughing. And it’s not the self-deprecating mirth from before; he’s simply expressing amusement at something the Joker’s said, and it’s even more unbearable to the man than the first time.

“I’d say getting a giant hamster wheel so the Batman doesn’t get fat would top that,” Bruce says.

“We don’t reckon weirdness the same way.”

They both fall quiet, looking at each other. In this instance, Bruce feels as if they were both refuse, a tumor the world has calcified over to prevent its further spread.

“You said you wanted to make me happy,” he says, not taking his eyes off him.

“If you’re about to say letting you go would make you happy-“

Bruce shakes his head, his eyebrows knitted. It’s enough for the Joker to fall quiet.

“Then let me tell you something about me,” Bruce starts. “I don’t settle for scraps. I have standards that aren't being met. I mean, look at yourself.” The way he sounds, the way he emotes—it sends the Joker into an amused stupor. He really does slip into Bruce Wayne seamlessly, even here and now. “How do you intend to keep me happy if you don’t even make the effort to keep yourself together?”

“What are we saying here, Bruce?”

“ _We_  are saying, first of all, you shouldn’t drink this stuff on an empty stomach.”

“Oh, you’re telling me to go eat something.”

Bruce chuckles. Joker looks at something distant, drumming his fingers against the half-empty can. He’s smiling. Finally, he nods.

“If it tickles your fancy.” He climbs off his lap and walks to the kitchen, dragging his feet a little, and again, there’s this fleeting sense of deprivation upon breaking the contact, but Bruce waits patiently. When the Joker returns, he’s holding a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his hand. He claims his rightful place.

“I take it you find me comfortable,” Bruce says with a slight grunt.

“Oh, you don’t like it?” the Joker asks with his mouth full.

Bruce sighs and closes his eyes. “I like it.” He looks up at him, noticing how that mouthful of his sandwich seems particularly hard to swallow. “You know I do,” he adds with a hitch.

“It sounds like a death sentence when you say it like that,” the Joker giggles and sucks on the side of his mouth. “But you see it as such, don’t you.”

Bruce takes a deep breath, overcome with sudden numbness. The warmth radiating from the Joker skews every single thought that flies through his head.

“As long as you manage to keep me here, let’s just avoid the subject,” he says.

“Oh, why?” Joker stuffs the last of his sandwich in his mouth and regards him wonderingly. “Afraid I do manage to talk you out of it?”

“No, it’s just… there’s no point.”

“ _Maybe it’s you who_  doesn’t have a point.”

Bruce raises his eyebrows, widening his eyes briefly before he scoffs and shakes his head.

“Say what you want, but  _I_  definitely  _do_  have a point.”

“Killing yourself?”

“Yeah.”

Joker chews on his lip, his breath growing increasingly ragged. He nods a few times and leans forward. His arms meet around the man’s shoulders, and even though he senses no aversion in the body he holds, it doesn’t seem to welcome him as readily as it did yesterday.

“You’re a little angry, aren’t you,” he murmurs, squeezing him tighter.

“I don’t know. A little.”

“Right before you were going to pull that trigger, I saw that, uh… you were quite angry. Who were you so  _angry_  with?”

“No one in particular. Just… everything.”

“You don’t think this is fair, what’s happened to you. You don’t think you having to die is fair at all.” Joker takes to twirling locks of Bruce’s hair in his fingers. “You’re right, it’s not. And if you ask me, you should just hold on to that. To that  _anger_. Let it run its course. You’re bound to find a way scoring higher on the  _fair_  scale.”

“I thought you were convinced there’s no convincing me.”

“Oh, I know. Just can’t shut myself up.” Joker feels Bruce’s breath ghost through his hair as he chuckles.

“If I chose to hold on to this kind of anger… I’d become you.”

“ _Me?_ ” Joker lifts his head and looks at Bruce, offended. “I am happiness incarnate.” He points at his scars.

“No. You found a way scoring higher on the fair scale. You sublimate that anger into whatever it is you choose to do without even feeling it anymore.”

“And is it much different than what you do?”

“I think you mean _did,_ ” Bruce corrects him. “And I’m assuming you’re talking of the principle, not the actual difference between killing people and helping them.”

“Yeah, I think?” Joker looks up, feigning uncertainty.

“What I chose for myself left me angry. I never really coped with it the way you did.” He smirks. “But I think I know why I can’t cope at all with... this. I never felt conflicted about how the man who killed my parents made me feel. I hated him. I wanted to obliterate the likes of him from this world. So I dwelled on that thought. Tried different approaches. I did try to kill him, you know.”

“I didn’t know  _that_.”

“Well, I did. Never got the chance, and maybe owing to that I’m here right now. And the  _here and now_  is quite different.”

“You’re conflicted about the way you feel about me.”

“No. No, I’m not conflicted at all.”

“So what’s different?”

“I don’t hate you.”

Joker stares at him, his chin trembling almost unnoticeably.

“Not even a little?” he asks.

Bruce shakes his head.

“Okay. Alright.” Joker manages to keep his tears in line. “I think I got the hang of your  _point_. But I still think it’s silly.” He forces himself to grin before he hides his face against Bruce’s neck, bringing his arms back around him.

“So have something else to think about,” Bruce says after a while, laughter lining his voice. “I think I gotta go pee now.”

Joker rights himself, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. Whatever makeup is left on his face, it does a very poor job at hiding his actual dark circles.

“Finally,” he says, smiling. He slinks off Bruce and disappears somewhere behind him, beyond his field of vision. He’s back within a few seconds, snapping another pair of cuffs around his wrists. The chain is longer, and it goes in front of his body. Then, he removes the pair holding his arms behind him and repeats the ritual from before, dropping the chains holding Bruce to the chair and immediately taking a few steps away, priming the gun. He walks to the half-open door leading to the bathroom and reaches inside, switching the light on without taking his eyes off him.

“Come on then,” he says and beckons at him.

As Bruce approaches, Joker moves slowly sideways, maintaining the distance and making way for him, then following him inside.

The bathroom looks normal at first, but one quick glance around is enough to notice a few things are off. There's a curtain rod going above the bathtub, although the curtain itself has been removed, lying crumpled on the floor. Some of the tiles above the tub are missing, and there’s fairly fresh looking plaster taking their place. A large eyehook protrudes in the middle with an open padlock hanging off it.

Panning to the right, Bruce notices another spot where the tiles have been pried off the wall facing him. Make that two spots; one near the floor, one around his eye level. These too have eye hooks sticking out of the plaster, and there are cuffs permanently fixed to them. Going further right, his eyes slide over the sink with a makeup-stained mirror cabinet hanging over it, to finally stop at the toilet. It looks fairly harmless. He walks up to it and hears the Joker echoing his footsteps. Soon enough, the man appears in his peripheral vision, still pointing the gun at him.

“Are you going to watch me?” Bruce asks.

“ _Duh_.”

Bruce grimaces and shakes his head. He looks at his hands. The plaster is mostly meant to put a crimp in his dexterity, not eliminate it completely. While maneuvering around his fly does prove to be challenging, unzipping it in this state isn’t the biggest hardship he’s ever faced. Trying to get a hold of his cock and point it accordingly is a bit more taxing, but Bruce suspects the discomfort is more psychological than anything else.

“This… is not easy,” he mutters under his breath.

“Oh, would you like me to hold it for you?” Joker perks up. Bruce gives him a slant look.

“Maybe not in these circumstances,” he says as he shakes off the final droplets. Joker gasps quietly.

“Are you  _flirting_  with me here?”

Bruce looks offended for a second, but then he just directs his gaze at the ceiling as if looking for an answer. He drops his head and fumbles with his fly, somehow managing to zip it up. He flushes the toilet and turns to the Joker.

“I have no idea,” he says honestly. “But I think I’d also like to take a shower.”

“Alright, so let’s get you in the shower,” the Joker smirks and motions with his free hand towards the cuffs mounted on the wall. “Come over here.”

Bruce walks up to the wall and inspects the system. He’s not sure he knows what’s in store for him, so he gives the madman a wary look.

“How’s this gonna work?”

“Face the wall, then snap the cuffs around your feet and your right hand,” the Joker orders, sill staying a few steps away. “Come on, I’m not gonna slash off your clothes and hose you down, just wanna undress you like a person,” he adds when Bruce hesitates too long for his liking.

Bruce raises his eyebrows and sighs. Finally, he obeys and cuffs himself to the wall. Once he’s done, the Joker walks up to him to remove the cuffs he had on for his trip to the toilet. Bruce realizes one of his arms is now free, but there isn’t a whole lot he can do with it, especially not when the Joker gets to work immediately, pulling off one side of his jacket and urging his arm up to do the same with his t-shirt. The second he’s done, he grabs his wrist and snaps the remaining metal ring around it. Then, he sticks the key in the one holding his right arm captive and repeats the process, removing Bruce’s clothes in the blink of an eye and locking him back in.

It goes similarly with the lower half of his body. Joker is very efficient at this kind of thing, perhaps unsurprisingly. When the socks are pulled off Bruce’s feet in a final gesture, the cold tiles send a shiver down his spine, but there isn’t time to dwell on that sensation. Joker is putting the walking cuffs back around his wrists and ankles and unlocking the mounted ones. He takes a few steps away, and Bruce is sure the gun is pointed at him again, but he doesn’t turn to face him yet. Somehow, he has again slipped into the mindset of not wanting to do anything without being told.

“Okay, you can go in the tub now. See that padlock? Thread it through your handcuff chain and the hook and lock it, will ya,” the Joker says in a tone unfitting the situation. It’s oddly cheerful. Bruce doesn’t say a word. He walks to the tub, sits on its edge, grabs it, twists and brings his legs over it. Once inside, he fixes himself to the wall as instructed. Seeing he’s secured, the Joker’s features soften, and he places the gun on a nearby counter, next to a stack of neatly folded towels. Just like the bed sheets, they look new and freshly washed.

When the Joker starts taking off his own clothes, Bruce experiences the familiar sinking in his stomach.

“So you’re going to wash me,” he says.

“Well, it would be kinda hard for you to do it yourself.” Joker kicks his pants off his feet and briefly struggles for balance removing his socks, then tossing them onto the growing pile of clothes. “Figured I’ll just get in with you, since sharing showers is environmentally friendly, and I'm an environmentally conscious guy.”

Bruce laughs quietly. Soon, the Joker is in the tub taking his place beside him, grabbing the shower head and turning on the water. He lets it run until it reaches satisfactory temperature, and then directs the stream at Bruce’s back.

“That okay?”

“Yeah,” Bruce says, but for some reason he chokes up on the word. Joker doesn’t seem to hear the hitch over the rustle. He touches his shoulder gently, getting him all soaked up before he slides his fingers into his hair and urges him to lower his head so the water doesn’t get in his eyes and ears as he rinses the locks. Once he’s done, he puts the shower head in its bracket but doesn’t turn the water off, letting it further steam up the air. He reaches to the opposite edge of the tub for the products lined up on top of it, grabbing the body wash and squeezing a dollop onto his palm. He rubs it between his hands shortly to warm it up before he touches Bruce’s body.

There are flashbacks from day zero going through Bruce’s head. Before the Joker rifted his mind for the first time, he did wash him as he was falling in and out of consciousness. Compared to then, the madman’s touch has grown remarkably more demure. It boils his blood all the same though. As the slippery hands wander all over his skin, their movements affectionate but void of anything sensual, Bruce feels something grow in his throat. Joker senses the tightness in his muscles. He wraps his arms around his torso and hugs him.

“Sure you’re okay?”

Bruce hums affirmatively, but the tension doesn’t go away.

“Don't like the gel? I spent like an hour trying to find something that smells like you,” the Joker chuckles against his shoulder. “But I might have picked out the wrong one.”

“No.” Bruce smiles. “No, you got it right.” And the fact he did wrings him up. “I use this one.”

“So? What is it?

“Well, if you need a recap…”

“Oh, right,  _that_.”

“Last night, I was trying to kill myself. And now I’m here, with you washing me, and I’m just trying to stay within the decorum… and not enjoy it too much. ”

“So you  _are trying_ ,” the Joker chirps and gives Bruce a light peck on his cheek. “Keep trying, sweetheart.” He slides his hands over the length of his cock and between his asscheeks, and still, there’s nothing sensual behind his gestures. He’s just cleaning him. It’s still enough to flood Bruce with fever. He grows slightly hard just with these few touches, and the firm chest pressed to his back isn’t helping. “Internal struggle keeps blood pumping, you know,” Joker whispers in his ear.

Bruce suspects his face has turned completely red. His blood is pumping, alright. Luckily, the Joker is now shampooing his hair, pushing his head slightly down, so he doesn’t see the effect he’s had on him. Or chooses not to dwell on it. The fact that he's also hit the mark figuring out what kind of shampoo he uses is not lost on Bruce. It injects him with another dose of dizzying heat until the thinking flatlines and he just gives into the soft caress of the madman’s hands, massaging his scalp, rinsing off the fluffy suds, then returning to his eager skin, rubbing his flesh until there’s no more soapy film coating it. Once he’s done, he slicks Bruce’s hair back for him and sticks the shower head back in its bracket.

“Alright, my turn,” he says quietly and stands straight, allowing the stream to hit his face. Bruce feels he’s still drifting, but he is present enough to turn his head in curiosity. For some reason, he wants to watch the Joker wash himself, just as he was keen to see him drink and eat. Right now, he seems to be soaking up, his face turned upwards, welcoming the whipping water. He rubs his face, eyes clenched shut. The remains of greasepaint get further smeared thin, and whatever’s left is more reminiscent of bruises than the commanding war paint it used to be.

Something about the way water is dripping off his hair mesmerizes Bruce. He observes little tributaries running into larger rivulets down the planes of the Joker’s scarred flesh. There are two gunshot wound scars he can see which he didn’t notice earlier, now getting obscured with foaming body wash as the man spreads it over his body, apparently unaware of the performance he’s giving. His eyes are still closed, allowing Bruce to stare with no consequence. Bruce finds himself reimagining the scene. The place he occupies is now taken by someone who knows when and how the Joker got shot. He knows how old the Joker is. He knows  _how he got his scars_. His arms are free, because the Joker didn’t think to restrain him. Because in this scenario, it would never occur to him it to do so. He won't spell it out to himself that a part of him would like to be that someone in this instance. If  _he_  weren’t restrained right now, would he bash the Joker’s head into the tiles, or reach out to hold him? He tells himself that he doesn’t know the answer.

He now watches the man wash his hair, his movements oddly chaotic as if he himself wasn’t convinced of their purpose. Joker’s not as thorough and caring with his own body as he was with Bruce’s. A bit of shampoo gets in his eye and he grunts, rubbing it. There’s something so endearing about the sight, it makes Bruce want to bash his own head against the tiles so he’d be spared the realization he finds the maniac adorable.

“Don’t rub it, you’ll just make it worse,” he hears himself saying.

Joker looks at him with one eye scrunched, managing a half-smile which further exacerbates Bruce’s turmoil.

“Wanna kiss it and make it better?” he asks. Bruce hangs his head, wishing he didn’t know the answer to  _that_  question. He’s not looking anymore, waiting for the man to finish. When he does, the water falls quiet and Bruce hears his splashing footsteps as he walks to the counter, possibly to get the towels. He’s not looking. He’s barely managed to will away his budding hard-on, but now the sole thought of the Joker drying him up is dangerous. The sole thought of the Joker doing  _anything_  to him is dangerous.

He senses movement behind him, and soon enough the pleasant coarseness of a towel wrapped around a warm hand starts sucking up the water off his body. He takes a deep breath, trying not to savor it, and the Joker goes a bit easier on him, making his touch as impersonal as possible. But he’s not a miracle worker, he needs to stay within the realm of possibility. He sees very well what effect he’s having on Bruce, and even in his own exhausted state he finds himself more responsive to it than he would have liked to. Something tells him he should leave Bruce alone for as long as he can. Let his body heal, his mind unload. He finishes drying him up, moving on to his own body, giving it a few perfunctory swipes and deeming it dry enough to put on the same clothes, fishing them out of the pile on the floor.

Once dressed, he paces to Bruce and is immediately smitten with warmth just exchanging looks with the man. His eyes tell him so much before they flit away, again fixing on something downwards. Joker extends his arm and sticks a key into Bruce’s hand, then takes a few steps back, keeping the gun ready.

“Open the padlock, leave the key in it, and get out. Just careful not to slip,” he says.

Bruce chuckles and does as he’s told. His skin is still pleasantly tingling, both from the hot water and the Joker’s ministrations, and it breaches into his mind. Something dark and demanding has awoken at the base of his spine, and no matter how hard he’s trying to strike it back into slumber, it keeps poisoning his blood. Once he’s out of the tub, he just stands there, his shoulders squared. He looks the Joker straight in the eye, not wavering this time.

“What do you want me to do now?” he asks, slightly surprised at the tone his voice has taken. He didn’t intend for it to sound so… coy. Perversely so, even. Joker swallows, and his gaze goes briefly astray, circling around Bruce’s flushed body before he trains it back on his eyes.

“Walk to the wall and snap yourself in, like before.”

Bruce obeys without a second’s hesitation. His walk ends up falling on the slightly ostentatious side without much of his conscious doing, but he knows the Joker is looking. And the more and more vocal part of him really enjoys the Joker looking. Once he’s cuffed himself, he glances over his shoulder to see the madman chew on the side of his mouth, taking a deep breath before he approaches him and inspects whether he’s done a good a job. He locks in the remaining wrist.

“Okay, wait a sec, I’ll bring you some clothes,” he says tightly, patting Bruce’s shoulder. The ghost of touch stays with the man, further adding to the poison. Bruce listens to the fading footsteps, and it doesn’t take long for the Joker to reappear. Craning his neck, Bruce is able to determine the clothes he’s brought aren’t his own. They look new and not like something the madman would wear. They look like something Bruce would wear.

“Here we go,” the Joker mutters as he slides a long-sleeved black t-shirt down his head, again exhibiting unnerving proficiency at locking each of Bruce’s extremities out and back in as he dresses him, finishing it off with putting his shoes on for him and zipping up the jeans, assessing the fit.

“Not bad, eh?” He takes a step back, smiles and cants his head approvingly. Then, he leans in, his mouth close to Bruce’s ear. He can’t stop himself. “Didn’t really know your size, but I guess my kinetic memory’s working.” Something about the way he says it goes straight to Bruce’s cock. He’s glad he’s dressed now.

“I don’t know, these pants seem a little tight. Isn’t your memory getting rusty?” He would be so grateful if he could just. Shut. Up.

“Do I hear a suggestion I should revise?” Joker asks, smile detectable in his voice. Bruce doesn’t look at him. He feels the stitching of his  _point_  snap string by string until there’s something tugging at the muscles of his neck, making him turn to look at the Joker and tell him something. He doesn’t vocalize it. He doesn’t have to. Joker’s shaky breath and widening pupils is the kind of response he was hoping for.

“Can you stay like this for a while longer for me?” the madman asks, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I, uh, I think I need a shave,” he adds, running his fingers down his jaw. Bruce notices there really is a slight stubble covering it, and once more he gets inexplicably excited at the prospect of seeing him do something mundane before his eyes.

“Go right ahead, I’m quite comfortable here,” he says, making a little display of twisting his wrists with a clank.

“You’re a doll,” the Joker purrs and starts getting ready at the sink beside him. Bruce keeps his head only slightly inclined to the right, trying not to make himself obvious. “You can watch, you know.”

At first it stings Bruce, as if the Joker being aware he enjoys to observe him doing all the  _human_  stuff he never previously associated with him somehow equaled being caught doing something indecent. He succumbs to his first impulse and takes his eyes off the man.

“Oh, I forgot you never do what you want to do unless you’re  _told_ ,” the Joker’s voice takes on a sour tinge. “Watch me,” he says.

When Bruce hesitantly turns his head to look at him, there’s a small smile flitting across his mouth. Joker returns it, squeezing a dab of shaving cream onto his palm without taking his eyes off the man. Finally, he glues them off to concentrate on smearing the product over the lower half of his face, checking his progress in the stained mirror.

Bruce finds himself focusing on his own breath as he looks on. The undulating pressure in his head he felt getting out of bed appears to be gone now. He still feels weakened, the powerlessness manifesting in pleasant lightness, although he no longer experiences the underlining morbidity. The sugar intake has probably lulled his brain out of its crisis mode for now. His body is an old hand at extreme conditions; he knows he could recover fast.

Although what he feels watching the Joker slide a straight razor down his jaw suggests he’d rather delay it. The man’s movements are learned and unerring, and Bruce wonders how long it’s been since he had to start taking account of the irregularities. He stirs up the water he’s filled the sink with, rinsing off the blade before he takes it back to his face. He doesn’t seem to be very happy seeing himself in the mirror, though, if Bruce can read the man’s subtleties at all. There are so many things he wouldn’t have normally read in the way the Joker emotes, but the more off kilter he falls, the better bearings he gets.

Joker is washing the remaining cream off his face. He’s not using any after-shave products. Holding the mirror cabinet open, he peruses its contents which remain obscured to Bruce. Finally, he produces a toothbrush and toothpaste. He looks at it as if a bit dejected before he starts brushing his teeth, surprisingly thoroughly considering the way they look. Again, Bruce finds himself wondering, how long did it take before he was again able to brush his own teeth? Before he could put anything in his mouth?

Once he’s done, the Joker laps up some running water and swishes it around his mouth before he spits it out. He grabs a towel and dries his face, immediately tossing it aside and having another peek at whatever the cabinet is hiding. He takes out a small jar of white greasepaint and turns it in his hands, as if weighing his options. The only makeup left on his face right now is some rudimentary greyish smudges around his eyes.

“I thought you said that stuff was toxic?” Bruce says quietly. Joker looks at him, a little jolted, as if the man’s words have barged into his thoughts.

“It probably is,” he says, dragging his syllables. Then, he takes a quick glance at himself in the mirror and grimaces, pointing at his dark circles and turning his eyes back to Bruce. “But this, I just…” He smacks his lips and shakes his head. Actually, he feels he should retain his toxicity. It might deter him from  _bothering_  Bruce, which is the last thing he’s supposed to be doing, coincidentally being also the first thing on his mind.

“I don’t really mind,” Bruce says, allowing the cuffs to support his weight as he relaxes on his feet a little. Water’s dripping off the Joker’s hair onto his shirt. He did a poor job at drying it. Now, he’s looking to the side, ruminating. Finally, he nods and puts the jar back in the cabinet.

“Do you want me to shave you too?” he asks, and again his accommodating tone seems ill-fitting.

“Do you want to shave me?” Bruce responds with a half-smile, rocking on his heels.

“I kinda like you like that, y’know?” Joker tilts his head, squinting. “You’ve got this whole stubbly troubled antihero thing going on… I can appreciate that.”

Bruce laughs. “I’d  _appreciate_  it if you brushed my teeth though, that I could go for.”

“Oh,  _right,_ ” the Joker drawls, propping himself against the sink. “Let’s just, um…” He reaches inside the cabinet for a yet unpacked toothbrush, a plastic cup and the toothpaste. “Let’s do it where you are, hm? Safer that way,” he says, extricating the brush out of its package, rinsing it with water and squeezing a dab of toothpaste on it. He holds it in one hand as he fills the cup with water, placing it on the sink edge. Then, he looks up with an oddly sprightly air about him and walks up towards Bruce, settling behind him.

“O _kay_  darling, open up,” he says as he wraps one arm around Bruce’s chest and readies the one wielding the toothbrush, pointing it at the man’s mouth.

“I usually start with my teeth shut,” Bruce says, and he detects a light note of complaint in his own voice, which he absolutely did not intend for. But these little things keep transpiring. Joker keeps squeezing them out of him, and now with his arm rubbing his chest apologetically he once more makes Bruce forget what he’s doing here.

“Alrighty then,” he says, stepping closer so their bodies press together. “Get ready…” Bruce bares his teeth, allowing the Joker to get inside and start working. “Okay,  _now_  open up,” he mutters once he decides he’s done with the fronts. He cups Bruce’s chin gently in his hand, tilting it slightly upwards so the white foam doesn’t drip out of his mouth onto his brand new black shirt. His movements are so caring and thorough, combined with his warmth seeping into Bruce’s body the longer he holds him—it quickens his pulse rather drastically, especially with the final few sweeps over his tongue.

“There you go,” the Joker whispers and kisses the back of his head. He lets go of him and tosses the brush in the sink, returning shortly with the cup, bringing it to Bruce’s mouth. He tilts it gingerly, doing his best to let the man take as much water as he wants without forcing it in. “Spit it back in here,” he says once Bruce is done swishing, and he does as told. “Want another round?” he asks and throws the cup’s contents into the sink. Bruce nods, his eyes fixed at some point smack in front of him. Joker rinses the cup, refills it and brings it back, repeating. Then, he wipes his mouth with his hand, washing off the remains of toothpaste off his fingers under the stream and wiping them dry against his own shirt.

The journey back feels like part of the ritual now, and Bruce doesn’t pay any mind to the gun pointed at him, nor to the Joker’s frantic, yet precise movements trying to chain him back down as quickly as possible. It’s just the way it goes. There’s a far more pressing matter in the back of his mind, and it erodes him further every time he catches a ghost of touch as the madman fastens him to the chair. When he leans over him briefly, Bruce turns his head to face him. They remain without a stir for a moment, and the Joker’s eyes respond to him, yet the rest of the man seems suspended in apprehension.

He doesn’t put up a whole lot of a fight. He ends up seating himself in Bruce’s lap again in spite of his own resolve.

“So how’s your dad, been saying anything  _interesting_  lately?” he asks, resting his hands on Bruce’s chest, tapping it lightly. He wants to take the man’s mind off what his gaze is dripping with, even at the price of sending him into a self-abhorring limbo. But the only reaction he gets is a flitting shadow in his eyes, quickly losing out to what it attempted to occlude.

“Don’t… not now.” Bruce leans onward as far as the cuffs allow. Joker moves back a bit to stay out of his reach, but Bruce isn’t trying to do anything. He’s only looking. “Come closer,” he says.

“Oh, now  _you_  wanna tell  _me_  what to do?” the Joker giggles, but maintains the distance. The way those green eyes cut into him, the jagged incision sweetened with a slight smile slithering onto Bruce’s lips—it chips away at whatever resolve the Joker’s been trying to hold on to. “You’re good,” he says and eases into his space, immediately swarmed with tingles. “Anything else you need, sweetheart?”

Bruce remains quiet for a good minute, and the Joker can feel him trembling beneath him. The tempo of his breath keeps increasing little by little, and each gust of exhaled air brushing against him sends more blood between his thighs. “Kiss me,” he says at last. Everything the Joker knows anymore melts into the shape of these two words and his vision blurs. He plunges onward without an ounce of self-restraint, his lips landing on Bruce’s, dimming out his awareness.

All of his nerve endings light up like a switchboard as he meets nothing but enthusiasm in response. It’s all moist warmth and softness and firmness, it pulls him in and all it seems to want is  _him_. More and more of him. He wraps his arms around Bruce, digging his fingers into his wet hair and pushes on, eliciting a small moan as his tongue reaches deeper, as he sucks harder, doing his best to supply the demand. All the tiredness evaporates from his limbs as his blood heats up. Bruce’s persistence in inviting him further in takes form through every resource left to him, as he tilts his neck, opens his mouth wider, coaxes the Joker’s tongue deeper inside, arches his body so there’s no doubt about how hard he already is.

Joker runs his hands over his shoulders, sliding down his sides and back up, scrunching up his shirt unintentionally, and the brief touch against his skin gives Bruce’s hips a good jolt. As the warm palms wander up his body through the thin layer of cotton, he keeps rocking, trying to find himself some point of friction, but the Joker is oddly reserved. Even his kiss is beginning to slacken, and finally he pulls away, leaving a small, apologetic peck on Bruce’s lips on his way out.

He stares at him, hoping to find some second thoughts in his eyes, but he sees none. His thoughts appear as one-tracked as they could ever be.

“What is it?” Bruce asks. Somehow he manages to coat these innocent words with something that makes the Joker’s cock ache.

“I, uh…” he starts, gulping. “How… far do you wanna go?”

“Ideally, I’d love to have some use of my hands so I could make you squeal again,” Bruce says, darting onward and biting the Joker’s chin gently. Then, he places a chaste kiss on his lips and falls back a little, observing. The madman follows him as if chained. His naked face is so close. “But it’s ok, I know you couldn’t deal with  _that_ ,” Bruce murmurs against his mouth. He himself can’t differentiate if his words are peppered with anger, derision or lust, or something else entirely.

Joker snarls, gripping fistfuls of his hair and pulling, not yet strongly enough to cause him any pain.

“Oh,  _you_ ,” he hisses. “Funny how booking yourself a seat on death row has made you so  _eloquent_.”

“Don’t… talk about that. Not now.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry, Brucey, I know all you want is a second’s reprieve from all those dark, grisly things.” The Joker’s fingers tighten in Bruce’s hair, and it’s starting to sting. “But  _this_  won’t make it go away.”

“What are you trying to do here?”

Joker sighs, his grip easing up. “Trying to…”  _spare you a lapse_  “…let you recover in peace? You’re still fragile as a baby snowflake.”

Bruce laughs. “Physically, this isn’t the worst I’ve ever been, you know. And I don’t think it’s about that at all, is it.”

“No, I guess it’s not,” Joker says in a small voice, his fingers sliding down, clenching over the fabric of his shirt.

“Just come here,” Bruce whispers. “It’s not just about me, I see you need it too. You want to be closer to me.” His eyes fall dark. “And I’m right here. Come closer.”

Joker appears to soften, his head lolling against Bruce’s. “Who’s caring for whom here…” he mutters, his eyes shut, and kisses him again. And again, he finds himself sucked into this unconditional warmth. He’s had Bruce kiss him voraciously before, overflowing, spilling, pushing into him at full tilt. This  _here_  is new, being invited inside with absolute clarity and no play, all cards on the table. But the cozy innocence only goes so far, and the warmth gets laced with something that turns the blood turbid. He’s now sticking his hands beneath Bruce’s shirt despite his best intentions. He knows well what’s paved with those.

Bruce arches under his touch as much as he’s allowed. He still tries to push his hips to meet the heat he feels through the layers of clothing. Finally, the Joker responds and thrusts against him.

“How close is close enough for you?” he rasps, pulling away. He starts licking the man’s jawbone, going lower, sucking on his throat.

“No such thing,” Bruce laughs gravelly. He tilts his head back, further pushing his body into the Joker’s grip. The madman’s arms snake around him like a vise. “Come back up here,” he murmurs.

Joker lifts his head and cants it left and right playfully as he brings it closer to Bruce until he’s close enough for the man to spring onward and kiss him again. His tongue is demanding, but there’s no urgency in the way it tenses up or relaxes around him, as if his mouth was its rightful place. As if there was no need for haste. Maybe this time, there isn’t. Joker lets himself sink down another notch. He caresses Bruce’s jaw, enjoying the bristling stubble, and when the man breaks the kiss, he cannot see anything beyond his perfect face.

“Undo your shirt,” Bruce commands.

Joker starts unbuttoning obediently. “And then what?” He rocks his hips, briefly rubbing their cocks together. Bruce’s breath falters, and he hesitates. Evidently the whole telling what’s on his mind thing is still shockingly new to him.

“Then bring me whatever you want my tongue on,” he says finally, smirking.

“You’re seriously good, you know that?” Joker leans in and licks Bruce’s lips as he deals with the last button. He leaves his shirt on, though. The command only extended this far. “Here, please” he purrs as he exposes his neck to him.

Bruce chuckles and places an open mouthed kiss on the Joker’s pulse point, sucking, grinding his tongue into the flesh, then slackening, running it softly across the smooth, clean shaven skin, pressing harder again, sucking again, bringing the unsavory whimpering to the surface. But the Joker doesn’t even try to shut himself up. He wraps his arms around Bruce’s head, encouraging him to keep melting him into a puddle.

“Now here,” he says breathlessly as he rights himself so his chest is at Bruce’s eye level. He spreads his shirt open.

Bruce immediately gets to work and leaves a teasing trail of kisses along the lines of his collarbones, then slowly tracing it back before he considers venturing further downwards. He nips with his teeth at the muscles of the Joker’s chest and finally lets his tongue slide over the expanses of warm flesh, sucking on the skin stretched thinly over his sternum.

“Take off your shirt,” he orders. “I want your hands on me, not holding it open,” he adds, looking up.

Those eyes make it so hard for the Joker to remember how the two of them came to be here like this, Bruce cuffed and immobilized, and him teetering on the brink of actual, honest-to-god madness, the one he would actually deem affliction, not the one that equaled complacence in his understanding. But now he feels elevated beyond their reality, as he tosses his balled shirt to the floor and brings his arms around Bruce’s neck. He places a kiss on top of his head, sighing into his hair as the man starts licking his chest anew. When his tongue flits over his nipple, the Joker tightens his fingers over the black shirt, arching, working up a slow, thorough tempo with his hips.

There’s lightness in his limbs, and he feels alive, having the thrums and throbs of the body in his arms permeate his skin, having Bruce’s eagerness kick his mind further away from the perilous brink. The way his tongue targets the sensitive flesh without reserve makes him completely forget where this abandon is stemming for, and he’s grateful. He senses deep in his gut Bruce is aiming to comfort him, and he lets him. The sweet mouth wandering over him warms his blood, purifies him, deepens his breath and makes each intake of air mean something.

He reaches down, squishes Bruce’s cheeks between his palms and stares, oblivious to what his own eyes might be telling. Whatever it is, Bruce seems to like it. He even grins and chuckles when the Joker begins to scatter tiny kisses all over his face, paying equal attention to each feature, and he’s tilting his head to get more. As the scarred mouth lands on his own, he pulls the Joker back inside for another dose of bone-melting tenderness the man would have never suspected him to be capable of just a few weeks ago.

Every little tension, inclination of Bruce’s head, the small, ragged sighs he lets out through his nose, the way he slows down every now and then to just suck indulgently, savoring, pushing his entire body up to meet him—it fills the Joker to the brim, and then some. He breaks the kiss to gasp, feeling tears flow down his cheeks, but he’s smiling.

“I really  _didn’t_  want to make you cry again,” Bruce laughs.

“No, this is…” Joker waves his hand dismissively, grinning, wiping a tear off his chin.

“Give it here,” Bruce whispers, and when he brings his face where he can reach it, he kisses the remaining drops away.

“I’m just happy,” the Joker says in a tiny voice, shivering a little with each soft peck. “That’s all.” He leans away, and the smile doesn’t leave him. Bruce has never seen him this utterly vulnerable, not even when he had him tied down and whimpering at his mercy. The way he is now, flushed and a tad disoriented, saying these few simple words with no modulation—it’s just shattering. Now he’s rubbing his face with open hands, slicking his hair back.

“What are we doing here, Bruce?” he asks. “What is this anymore?”

Bruce knows exactly what he means by that. He knows how simple the answer is, and how its smoothness couldn’t possibly fit through their jagged throats. He did intend to give the Joker a bit of comfort, but it’s obvious no  _bit_  could ever do the job at this point.

“We both know,” he says at last. “And we know there’s no point asking.”

“No, no… I want to ask you,” the Joker snuggles his face to Bruce’s neck, his fingers moving up through his hair. “I wanna ask you so many things.” His voice is still void of any premeditation. Bruce brings his mouth to the spot beneath his ear and kisses it. He stays like this, breathing against the warm skin.

“Me too,” he whispers. “But right now… now I need you to make me forget why I’m chained down.” He smiles. “I wish I could make you forget, but there’s only so much I can do.”

“Yeah… there are still limits to how we can carry ourselves,” the Joker says, traces of his usual drawl finding their way back. Bruce welcomes it. As long as the madman can distance himself, he can follow. “Would be nice if you could make me forget.”

“Then you need to put some elbow into it,” Bruce chuckles. “Because I’m kinda tied up here.”

Joker laughs and presses his forehead to Bruce’s. “Oh, but you were doing just  _fine_.” He kisses the tip of his nose. “Y’know, I've found I like it when you tell me what to do. You should play  _that_  up.”

“Alright.” Bruce leans onward. “Put your hand between my legs and touch me,” he whispers against the Joker’s lips. “And don’t stop kissing me. I want you… in me. In any way.”

He gasps when his hand cups him and starts rubbing without a second’s delay. Joker’s tongue slides inside his open mouth, doing its best to reach the deepest and fill him up. He sucks up Bruce’s quiet, and then not so quiet moans one by one, purring as he tastes the hot, tingling sweetness on him. All these delicious little sounds keep vibrating around his own mouth, and he doesn’t stop, just as asked. He snarls his fingers in the damp hair and pulls Bruce’s head back, grinding deeper into him, making him cry louder.

He moves his hand faster, squeezing harder until his tempo corresponds with the frantic throbbing he feels through the jeans. Bruce can’t take this for long. He screams and twists away gently, breaking the kiss.

“That’s enough,” he says, breathless, his face pink and coated with a sheen of sweat. Joker withdraws his hand, but his fingers remain tangled in Bruce’s hair, keeping his head tilted back so he can feast on the sight despite the stabs of pain it sends through his gut.

“Come sit closer,” Bruce smiles. “Move against me… slowly,” he commands. Joker nods and returns the smile. He lets go of the dark locks and puts his hands on his shoulders for a bit of leverage as he positions himself and starts pushing his hips into Bruce’s rhythmically. “Sit straight… closer…” the man whispers, his breath faltering.

Joker obliges him, and the moment his flesh is within Bruce’s reach, it’s besieged with adoring warmth. When a series of flitting kisses lands around one of his nipples, he sighs and rocks into him a little harder, and then a little more when the kisses give way to gentle sucking and the tongue rolls over it in small circles. Joker arches into the caress, moaning, their hips connecting with increasing impatience. Bruce’s burning kisses wander over to the other side, and the Joker feels if they don’t move it to a higher venue soon, he’s going to burst. He stifles a whine as Bruce moves his tongue in an especially unbearable way, and then he wraps his arms around the man’s head, thrusting, bringing his neck to him. Bruce licks up the throbbing veins, sucking blooming hickeys into his skin. All the while the Joker stays in motion, his heavy breathing falling into poorly smothered whimpers.

“Alright, alright, shh…” Bruce chuckles and kisses his cheek. “I think you can unzip us now…”

“Yeah,” Joker lets out a throaty laughter, returning the gesture with a suckling kiss on Bruce’s forehead.  He unzips Bruce’s jeans first and pulls down the waistband of his underwear, allowing his cock to spring up before he does the same for himself. “Now what?” He tilts his head, panting.

“Now line us up and keep moving. And if you would care to pull my hair again as you kiss me… only harder.”

Joker just stares, ignoring the command. Then, he throws his arms around Bruce’s neck and hugs him tightly. Something about the way the man asked to be hurt short-circuits his restraint. Bruce feels his scarred lips move against his ear inaudibly before they trail across his face and land on his own, sucking in earnest. He melts against him, into him, shaking, his eyes stinging. He did make out the three words the Joker mouthed. Their shape burns into his body, their weight leaves him concussed, and he opens up wider for his tongue to further inject the sweet, warm pain he’s just caused until it doesn’t really sting anymore.

As the Joker's hand brings their cocks together, keeping them in line for him to begin thrusting at a steady pace, Bruce is finally sensing the edge of oblivion. He asked to be made to forget, and the materialization of his wish is dimly visible from where he’s looking. He kisses the Joker back with doubled force as his little soundless utterance still knocks around his skull.

Joker breaks the kiss, his gaze boring into Bruce’s glazed eyes as he licks his palm and brings it back around them, stroking, squeezing them together. Then, he sinks into him at full throttle, this time pulling at his hair according to the man’s request. He does use a little more force, and then tentatively he tries a bit harder still, using the increasingly high pitched moans as his bearings. Bruce is evidently eager for a hearty serving of pain. Joker lifts his head once more without breaking his tempo.

“Having some cravings today, aren’t we,” he murmurs.

Bruce bares his teeth in a sneer. “Come down here and bite my neck. Just  _don’t be shy_ ,” he swallows with a slight difficulty, his head still pulled backwards. “Wanna feel what you said just then,” he adds quietly.

Joker furrows his brows and lets out a ragged sigh.

“I thought you wanted to forget why you’re here.”

“I wanna forget why… I’m so easily  _offended_ ,” Bruce chuckles. “Just do what I tell you,” he hisses, though his eyes have nothing but tenderness for him.

The sides of the Joker’s mouth tremble until he breaks into a smile, and he lets go of Bruce’s hair to bring his hand to his temple in a salute.

“Yes, dear,” he purrs and dips down, dropping his jaw, clenching his teeth over the tendons of Bruce’s neck. He doses out the pressure in small increments, now keeping both of his hands wrapped around their cocks, beating them off steadily, adding to it with the rhythm of his hips. He alternates between sucking and biting, not being able to deny himself the soft flesh, and the way Bruce screams and shudders the more his teeth sink down tells him he’s hitting the mark rather well.

The pressure goes up and the valves go off. Endorphins do their job, translating pain into greater and greater pleasure. Joker sucks on the other side of his throat, then readies for another slow bite. As the hard bone grinds into him, Bruce once more finds the purified space amongst all of his howling oaths and promises. No need to keep them now, his own screams render them null. He’s forgotten at last, the Joker has given him his sanity back, and it feels nothing like what he had it for before it all began. It feels nothing like being tugged in all directions, being talked over, being bent over by the innumerable little obligations he piled up for himself. It feels like being on his own side, for once.

“Stop, stop…” he wheezes, trying to stave off the release the Joker was just about to bring him. The man unclenches his teeth and takes his hands off their cocks, looking up. He too appears to be in a much better place now. “Fuck me,” Bruce says.

As content and blissed out the Joker looked just a second ago, it all momentarily gives way to imminent panic.

“No, no, no, wait… wait,” he says and runs his hand down Bruce’s hair, giving the side of his head a few pats. He’s trying to ignore his cock saying the exact opposite. “I really, uh, don’t think it’s a good idea. It wouldn’t be good for you.”

Bruce grins. “Because I’m fragile as a baby snowflake?”

Joker snaps his fingers and points at him, nodding. “You guessed right.”

“I’m feeling more like an age-of-consent snowflake, at least…”

The madman laughs and wraps his arms around him. “That’s why you’re prone to making  _bad_  decisions.” His embrace tightens. “You’re still very dehydrated, I could seriously hurt you, y’know,” he mutters against the black cotton.

“That didn’t seem to be a problem for you the first time,” Bruce says without a trace of bitterness.

“I got excited, what can I say,” Joker laughs into the warmth.  _And I was sure you would end it with the first time._ “Now I gotta look ahead.”

“Now you look at me,” Bruce orders. Joker lifts his head. The man's gaze seems level enough for him to calm himself a little. “I want you to fuck me. I’ll be fine if you prepare me well enough.”

“And what if you end up not being  _fine_?”

“Well, I’ll have plenty of time to recover.”

“That is true,” the Joker smiles and brings his head closer. “Are you  _sure_  sure?”

Bruce darts onwards and leaves a teasing kiss on his lips. “You said you like me telling you what to do. Now own up to it.”

“ _Now_  you’re gonna turn that against me,” the Joker hisses and sends his tongue inside, only to taste how desperate for him Bruce really is. It's hard to break away from him. “Oh, I could never say no to you. What is it about you, I wonder?” He strokes his cheek.

“Told you I’m a spoiled, rich kid. I throw a tantrum when I don’t get what I want.”

Joker smiles and slides off his lap. “Be right back,” he says as he disappears behind Bruce. When he returns, he places a few things on the floor at the side and stands in front of the man, mulling something over. “But how are we supposed to, uh,” he mumbles and his voice trails off.

Bruce laughs. “You’re gonna have to unchain my legs. You can leave them cuffed, though.”

“Oh.” Joker looks dejected. “But-“

“Even if I could knock you out with my legs in this position, I still wouldn’t be able to set myself free with that shit on my hands, so stop worrying.” Bruce really does sound a little petulant, but the Joker doesn’t mind. On the contrary. He also understands why it’s not good to dwell on the fact Bruce’s tied down for a reason. He unchains his legs and grabs the waistband of his jeans, tugging them down to his ankles along with his underwear. Despite the recess time, Bruce is still completely hard. Whatever is going through his mind, it keeps him ready, and the sight is enough to replenish the blood in the Joker’s own cock.

“Now you gotta step in between my legs, here,” Bruce says in a much more amicable tone, seeing the Joker is now in full cooperation mode. He stretches out his legs and spreads his knees as far as he can, creating a space for him to stand in. The madman does as instructed, and Bruce is pleased to notice he’s figured out the rest himself. He hooks his hands beneath his legs and hoists them up a few inches so he’s able to squeeze himself beneath Bruce until he’s seated in the chair with the man in his lap. 

Joker smiles as he slips his hands under Bruce’s shirt and rolls it up, exposing his body. There’s no trace of the previous pallor, every square inch of his skin is flushed and visibly yearning for his touch. He moves his palms in lazy patterns over the undulating flesh, sliding down and clawing his fingers over Bruce’s scarred ass. As he tightens his grip, he starts kissing his chest and sucking on the hardened nipples. He sends his hands a little lower and slowly rubs his twitching asshole. Bruce is trembling under his mouth, breathing faster, but he doesn’t hurry him. Instead, he arches into him as if making it clear he’s subjecting himself completely to the Joker’s care.

Joker reaches to the side, picks up a bottle of lube and sticks its tip inside him, squeezing in a fair amount. Initially Bruce isn’t keen on the cold sensation, but the Joker’s finger gently prodding at him quickly warms him up. He wants to have him inside right this instant, but he knows he truly is prone to damage. Which doesn’t suggest he’s not turned on to the point even the Joker’s pinky finger slowly worming its way into him sends a focused surge of heat straight to his cock, punching a soft groan out of his throat.

Joker notices Bruce’s body doesn’t put up much resistance. In fact, it seems to urge him in, relaxing almost immediately. Still, he’s not taking any chances. He keeps using the smallest and safest part of himself for the next few minutes, diligently rubbing the lube in before he even thinks of giving him more. Not to mention Bruce’s little frustrated sounds are painfully addictive. Finally, he dares to send in his middle finger instead, still not running into much fight. Bruce does clench around him, but he seems to be doing it voluntarily. When the Joker looks up at him, the man’s gaze tells him that this isn’t nearly enough, but it clouds over when he curls his finger upwards and starts massaging him indulgently.

Bruce jerks, trying to force him in deeper, but the Joker grips his hip, keeping him at bay while his other hand retains its own leisurely tempo. He goes as slowly and gently as he can, still ending up working Bruce up into a frenzy. Finally, he decides it’s safe to send another finger inside. Bruce keeps his teeth gritted, but he can’t help the little moans escaping him one by one as the Joker’s touch grows a bit firmer. After what feels like hours, yet another finger enters him and Bruce gasps and throws his head back, smiling, becoming increasingly vocal about how the Joker’s hot tongue wandering over his chest and his quickening speed make him feel.

Joker needs to gather everything he’s got to stop himself from going even faster to make the man scream louder. He forces his mouth to let go of the eager flesh, and looks at his work. Bruce seems more than ready. He’s not bleeding and he’s not exhibiting any signs of damage, and his cock is hard as ever.

“Oh, you really want this, hm?” the Joker purrs and smiles at him.

“I really want you.”

The way he says it, warmly and with no hesitation—it cleaves away all the traces of doubt the Joker might have had. He nods, leaving a lingering kiss on Bruce’s chest and leans to the side to pick up a condom.

“Well, that’s new,” Bruce says with a hint of laughter as the man unrolls it down his cock and spreads some lube over it.

“Shh, don’t you pay any mind to it.” He rubs his thigh. No need to talk about the fact getting himself cleaned out in this state would be more than difficult for Bruce afterwards if they didn’t use it. He looks him in the eyes, lining himself up and starting to prod at his hole with the tip of his cock. Bruce sucks in breath, his mouth watering despite the dehydration. He swallows, panting as the thick, swollen head breaches him millimeter by millimeter.

“Just, uh,  _please_  tell me if it hurts at  _any_  point. I mean, I know you have your  _cravings_ , but… let’s both be responsible, hm?”

“Yes, dear,” Bruce chuckles, mocking the Joker’s tone. The man is now halfway buried inside him, still going maddeningly slow, but promising a reward for his patience. His eyes keep smiling at him, telling him what he already knows.

When he’s all the way in and Bruce shows nothing short of absolute enthusiasm, the Joker allows himself a few gentle, shallow thrusts to test the waters. Bruce grunts with evident pleasure and twitches all around him, but there’s no resistance. Joker rolls the man’s shirt back up and wraps his arms around the arched torso, holding him flush to his own chest as he begins to properly fuck him, managing to get him loud within seconds.

Bruce gasps and shudders. He can’t help the tremors subduing him as the Joker’s hot cock moves inside him slowly, lovingly, stretching him out and filling him up. His eyes roll back when the madman starts scattering moist, affectionate kisses over his nipples, gradually giving way to his tongue taking care of them in ways that make his cock trapped between their bodies ache harder and harder. Joker snakes his arm around the small of his back, pulling him closer to give him a little more friction. As his deft mouth keeps working, spurring increasing surges of sweet tingles, his cock begins aiming at the spot that forces a more high-pitched and less dignified moan out of Bruce with every deep, thorough thrust, his tongue making sure to keep him whimpering in between. 

In the midst of it all, Bruce finds himself in a place occupied solely by the part of him that seethed in anger at the inevitability of his sentence. The voiceless words  _not guilty_  echo through his skull. He feels justified, he feels compensated, and he’s damn glad he’s here, conscious and alive, able to appreciate his own wretchedness. It just seems  _fair_.

He looks down at the Joker, knowing he has nothing but gratitude for him in this moment. He kisses his forehead, not wanting to ever take his lips off his skin. Joker looks up, giving him one of those smiles that irrationally make Bruce doubt if this man could ever truly be capable of committing all those atrocities he’s experienced first hand, and then his eyes tell him he’s the only person in the whole world who’s ever seen him smile like that. It doesn’t hurt. Whatever Bruce makes him feel, it seems to be fair to him too.

As their bodies keep slamming against each other, building up a layer of moist heat between them, Bruce senses an increase of pressure, knowing he’s going to come soon without the Joker even putting a finger on his cock, satisfied with just the intermittent friction against the man’s lean torso. He cries out loudly, succumbing to spasms taking over his muscles. Joker digs his fingers into his hair, directing his gaze at himself.

“I’m gonna come,” Bruce whispers, his eyes barely present.

“Just from this?” the Joker asks as he starts fucking him harder. He’s also fairly breathless.

“Just from you,” the man smiles gently between moans he couldn’t control even if he wanted to. The Joker’s face is only a blur now, he can’t see his reaction, but he can feel it just fine as his insistent tongue bores inside, kissing, spoiling, leaving him no doubt about what this is. When Bruce comes, securely wrapped in him, filled with him, he feels absolved with his love, not caring he’s going to have to atone for it sooner or later. It won’t matter for the following stretch of warm silence.

What happens next presents itself to Bruce as a series of jagged vignettes, dulled around the edges with the overlaying comfort and safety. He gives in to his own powerlessness the second his blood stops rushing, realizing once more how deep he’s run himself down. But he’s not thinking about it now. His mind is still taken with the look on the Joker’s face as he came inside him just seconds after, with the way he cleaned him up and fixed his clothes and smoothed his hair down for him.

When it’s finally time for lucidity, the madman is seated in his lap as is his prerogative, holding another glass of juice for him to drink up. He looks much less distressed now, as if Bruce has succeeded in offering him a sliver of comfort. It’s all good. Keeping the Joker happy is desirable. Bruce listens to him talk about slowly getting him back on solid foods over the next few days, and he’s trying his best to suppress something that comes with regaining cold awareness. He’s not showing anything that isn’t weakness and this special brand of tenderness the Joker just takes from him without much of his say.

When the glass is empty and placed on the floor beside them, Bruce stares into the Joker’s face, taking note of the exhaustion.

“Come here… hold me for a bit,” he says quietly. Joker remains motionless for a few beats, deciding whether he should choose to pretend Bruce truly is alright and play along or if he should keep his guard up. He knows the correct answer, but there’s no way he could say no to the man. His head is buzzing and the edges of his vision are getting gray and blurry. He’s stayed awake for too long, and now his own bliss is going to lay its claim to him. He wraps his arms around Bruce and rests his head on his shoulder.

Bruce doesn’t say a word until his even breath lulls the man to sleep. Then, he stops caring, his tears flowing as he’s grounded in his little pocket hell, the words his father spoke to him clinging to his happiness like parasitic resin until it’s shriveled and misshapen beyond recognition.

 


End file.
